Chapter Twenty-One — Tessa #2
Rhett and I stood outside the conference room holding containers of enchiladas and the framed magician photograph I had refused to return.
He looked at the frame.
“You cannot keep that.”
“Your mother gave it to me.”
“She lent it.”
“She said, and I quote, ‘For leverage.’”
“Family betrayal.”
I handed him my phone.
He read the feature request.
The humor left his face.
“No.”
“You answered quickly.”
“We already declined this.”
“This is a different format.”
“It is the same invasion with better graphics.”
“The student activities office would get visibility.”
“Tessa.”
“And the athletics program.”
“No.”
His tone sharpened.
I looked at him.
He looked back.
For one second, neither of us moved.
Then I said, “You do not get to decide alone.”
He exhaled.
“You’re right.”
The immediate correction should have helped.
It did not.
Not enough.
“We should discuss it,” I said.
“We are.”
“No. You said no.”
“Because I know you don’t want it.”
“That is not the only factor.”
“It should be.”
“Why?”
“Because it is our relationship.”
“And our relationship exists inside a university that supported both of us.”
His expression hardened.
“So gratitude means access?”
“No.”
“That is what you’re saying.”
“I am saying there may be a way to participate without giving them everything.”
“Why do you want to?”
“I want the funding secure.”
“It is secure.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Neither do you.”
The argument escalated faster than expected.
Probably because it was not only about the interview.
It was about Boston.
The public comments.
His reputation.
My fear of wasting opportunities.
His fear of becoming a campaign.
Everything.
Rhett set the food container on the nearest ledge.
“You keep making yourself the price of every opportunity.”
The sentence struck.
“What does that mean?”
“It means the university asks for something personal and you start calculating whether giving it away is worth the benefit.”
“That is not fair.”
“It is exactly what you’re doing.”
“I am trying to think beyond myself.”
“Why does thinking beyond yourself always mean ignoring what you want?”
My frustration sharpened.
“You think every choice is simple if it feels honest.”
“No.”
“You say no to the university and suddenly we’re brave?”
“I say no because I don’t want strangers turning us into a story.”
“We are already a story.”
“That doesn’t mean we help them sell it.”
The hallway felt too bright.
Too public.
A student passed at the far end.
I lowered my voice.
“Maybe I’m willing to do one controlled interview.”
“And I’m not.”
There it was.
The actual conflict.
Not whether I wanted it.
Whether both of us did.
I folded my arms.
“Then say that.”
“I have.”
“No. You said I don’t want it.”
Rhett went still.
I continued.
“You keep protecting me from things I haven’t refused.”
His face changed.
Hurt first.
Then understanding.
“I thought—”
“I can see that.”
“Tessa.”
“You asked me to choose. Let me choose.”
He looked down.
The silence stretched.
Then he nodded.
“Okay.”
That word.
Again.
Too careful.
Too distant.
I hated it.
“What?”
“You’re right.”
“That is all?”
“What else do you want me to say?”
“The real thing.”
His eyes lifted.
“The real thing is I hate this.”
“The interview?”
“The way the university makes me wonder whether saying no hurts you.”
My anger softened.
Not gone.
Complicated.
He continued.
“I hate that every public decision becomes a test of whether I support your work. I hate that if I refuse, I look selfish. And I hate that part of me wants to say yes because I’m scared you’ll think I’m not serious enough to build anything with.”
The last sentence stripped the argument down.
There he was.
The fear beneath the boundary.
I looked at him.
“You do not have to prove that to me.”
“That doesn’t make it easier.”
“Do you?”
He laughed once.
No humor.
“Probably not.”
I stepped closer.
He stayed still.
“I don’t want the full feature,” I said.
His expression changed.
“I might be willing to do a short written statement about the partnership between student activities and athletics.”
“No relationship questions.”
“No personal photos beyond what they already have permission to use.”
“We approve the final language.”
“Yes.”
“And if either of us is uncomfortable, we stop.”
“Yes.”
Rhett considered it.
Not immediately agreeing.
Actually considering.
That mattered.
Finally, he nodded.
“I can do that.”
Relief moved through me.
Then guilt followed.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For acting like your boundary was an inconvenience.”
His expression softened.
“I’m sorry I answered for you.”
We stood there amid leftover enchiladas, fluorescent lights, and the consequences of loving someone with different fears.
Not romantic.
Real.
Rhett reached for my hand.
I let him take it.
“First fight?” he asked.
“That was not a fight.”
“You accused me of emotional dictatorship.”
“I did not use those words.”
“Energy.”
“You were difficult.”
“You were wrong.”
I narrowed my eyes.
His mouth curved.
“Too soon?”
“Yes.”
He lifted our joined hands.
“Still love me?”
I pretended to consider.
“I’m considering your appeal.”
He pressed one hand to his chest.
“Cruel.”
I stepped closer.
“Still love you.”
His smile changed.
Warm.
Relieved.
Honest.
“That helps.”
“Good?”
“Very.”
I kissed him once.
Quickly.
Then handed him the magician photograph.
He looked down.
“Why are you returning it?”
“I made a copy.”
His mouth fell open.
For once, I walked away before he found a response.
Behind me, he said, “Tessa.”
I kept going.
“Tessa!”
I smiled.
Our first fight had not ended us.
It had not solved every difference either.
That was the point.
Love was not agreement.
It was learning how to disagree without turning distance into an exit.
And for the first time, I believed we might actually know how.